


Under the Noble Trickster

by Atanih88



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Knotting, M/M, Something Made Them Do It, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 19:14:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atanih88/pseuds/Atanih88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dean has to help work a coyote spirit out of his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under the Noble Trickster

**Author's Note:**

  * For [calmena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/calmena/gifts).



> Written for calmena as part of the spn_j2_xmas exchange. Dear calmena, I apologise profusely for what you're about to read. I picked your knotting kink and your size kink and tried to go with those and then… yeah. This happened ^^; I have a J2 one half written for the same prompt… couldn't decide which one to finish *sigh* but. Here you go : ) Thank you to theskywasblue for awesome powers of super beta-ing when I tossed this at her, it was really appreciated. Merry Christmas ♥

Dean doesn't know how long he sits outside, his back to the door.

It's long enough for the damp cold to settle on him, like soft cobwebs that don't brush off when he wipes his hands down his face. His cheeks are rough against his hands with day old stubble and it scrapes like carpet burn over the mounds of his palms.

If there's a tremble to his hands, he doesn't acknowledge it as he drops them to his thighs, the denim cold and soft under his hands. There's a bag on the floor between his legs, the food in it probably gone cold. But there's a nice new bottle of whiskey in there – cheap but it'll do the trick.

"Dean. You can't sit out there all night."

Dean blinks. For a moment, he fixes his gaze on the frosty blue that's starting to crawl into the morning sky. He doesn't say anything.

"I can smell you." Sam sounds resigned.

Of course, Dean thinks, of course he can fucking smell me. He grabs the whiskey out of the bag, muttering under his breath as he unscrews the lid if the bottle. He downs about a third of it before he blows out a breath, rubs a rough hand over his hair.

"Dean."

It's the quiet tone, the weighed down one that Dean doesn't need to hear right now. Not if they're going to get through this.

The door opens slow and stiff on its rusted hinges and Dean's surprised the thing hasn't just fallen off yet.

He hooks the bag on his way in and let's himself focus on the weak light, just a glow where it's set not too far from Sam's feet. It's one of those emergency ones, more a small lamp than anything else, but it's on its last leg and doesn't do all that much for the darkness that rests in the nook and crannies, comfortable like snakes coiled up and cozy in their corners.

It's a wreck of a place. They've stretched out sleeping bags in one corner of the room. There's a bed in there. Just the frame of it really and no sign of a mattress. It's the only piece of furniture in the whole place. Not even a table.

Sam shifts where he sits, drawing Dean's attention back to him. His legs look longer but Dean thinks that might just be a trick of the light. He's got his eyes on Dean but other than the feverish tint of red just under his eyes like bad sunburn—or the way his tongue flicks over his lips as his eyes slide down Dean's front—he's relaxed, calm.

And very awake. Trust Sam to actually scrabble a hold on reality when Dean would rather he was out for the count. Although Dean doesn't really want to think about how he would've had to act if that had been the case.

It's cold as a bitch but as Dean steps closer to dump the stuff next to the lamp, his arms are all smooth skin despite the short sleeves, like he's not feeling a thing. Sam tips his head back, leans it against the dirty pipe. He shifts a bit further back and the cuffs knock against the pipe, links scraping over the flaking paint that is peeling off all along the length of it.

"I got us something to eat," Dean says, rubbing his hands together and manages to keep his eyes on Sam's face through sheer force of will.

Sam sucks in a breath and nods. "Okay. Is that it?"

Dean laughs and looks away with a shake of his head. "No."

Sam sighs and flexes his shoulders and Dean thinks he's trying to work the pressure on his wrists which has probably gone beyond discomfort by now. "You know, you don't have to do this."

Dean drops his hands to his sides. "Is it gone?"

At that Sam shifts again until his head is resting against the pipe once more. He meets Dean's gaze and that little bit of hope that had been huddling in the corner of Dean's mind, snaps out of existence. "Is it doing anything?"

Sam shrugs, is the one to glance away this time. "Same thing it's been doing all week. Wanting you. It gets quieter when you're not around."

"Fucking psycho spirits," Dean mutters, swallowing against the revolt in his stomach.

Sam sighs and this time it isn't as calm, he draws in his shoulders and curls forward. The cuffs get caught against the pipe. "What did you get?"

The glow of the light throws eerie shadows over the top of Sam's face, the weak slabs of yellow hitting the hollow of his throat, the underside of his chin and upper lip. But outside it's getting lighter and although they'd managed to get an old battered sheet up around one of the windows, it won't do much in the way of keeping the light out. Dean really doesn't do this with the cold light of winter keeping everything sharp and clean because it'll cut into him easy as a scalpel and he doesn't think it'll be something he'll just be able to slap a bandage over and move on from.

The thought gets him moving. He squats by Sam's side and tugs the box of Chinese take away out, sets it down and the bottle of water next to it. He digs out the key from his back pocket.

"Uh, Dean, you really think that's a good idea?" Sam asks, looking from the tiny key Dean's holding to Dean's face, he's frowning a little but the slant of his eyes softens his expression. Close up, the raw red coloring the skin just under Sam's eyes is blatant and his lips are chapped. Makes sense. Sam's been under the fever the ritual had brought on for a while now. Dean's surprised he hasn't started hallucinating or something.

Dean tugs on one of Sam's wrists. The skin is hot under his palm but he keeps his mind on the task at hand and quickly frees one of Sam's hands and locks the free cuff to the pipe. "What? You gonna attack me now or something? Seems kind of pointless since its already getting what it wants." He doesn't look at Sam as he says it but Sam falls quiet and Dean knows he's watching him again.

"We're really doing this," Sam says.

Dean drops his head, his hands hanging limp from where his wrists rest against his knees. "Looks like it." Then before Sam can say anything else, he pushes himself up, hears the click of a knee when he does. He picks up the bag, the weight mostly gone now that he's unloaded Sam's food. "Eat," he says, "I'm gonna…" Yeah. He doesn't want to go there.

Sam's looking down at the take-away now but he makes no move to pick it up. "Thanks but I'm not—"

Dean grits his teeth and walks over to the poor excuse for a bathroom door. "Then wait until we're done."

He wants to slam the door behind him, resists only because he thinks the thing would just splinter into tiny pieces.

Right now it's the only thing between him and what they're going to do next. So he swallows the impulse down.

He closes the door quietly. Then he just stands there.

The bathroom is colder than the room outside and the lightning of the sky is a glow of soft blue over the distorted pane of the window high up on the bathroom wall.

Dean shrugs off his jacket and tosses the bag onto the cracked and yellowed sink. The small bottle spills out and Dean looks away from it.

Then he reaches for the buckle on his jeans and starts to tug at his belt.

~

Dean slips back out of the bathroom when he's done. He doesn't particularly care about how stupid he looks. He's left his shirt on and the t-shirt under that is still there too and after he'd finished, he'd pulled his boxers back up. The more layers he got to keep on, the better.

Sam's got his head resting back and his eyes are closed, free hand rapping a monotone tune on the floor. The space between his eyebrows is pinched and his mouth is tense. When Dean opens the door Sam turns to look at him. His hand stops moving.

Primitive yellow flickers in Sam's eyes, a glow in the darker depths of the room before it dies back down into the warm greens and browns that belongs to Sam.

It’s the spirit locked inside his brother looking out. It knows and it's waiting.

It makes Dean's skin crawl.

The take-away is still unopened and set a little ways from him but despite it Dean can still smell it in the air.

Sam scoots up, shoulder pressing back and his other hand braced on the floor as he draws his legs up as if to fold them but he just tucks one foot under, leaves his other leg stretched out. He's watching Dean quietly and Dean wonders how he's staying so calm.

Maybe all that yoga bullshit helps when it comes to having a coyote spirit bent on tearing the nearest person a new one until the urge to mate is gone. Or whatever the fuck it wanted to do.

Then again—it wasn't so much the spirit's fault as the screwed up witches that had tried to trap it to begin with. Despite the situation, Dean lets himself feel the satisfaction of putting a bullet in their heads for a second. It was kind of nice having someone pay for the shit that was done to them for once.

"You okay?" Sam asks.

Dean sucks it up and rubs his hand over his face, tenses when he smells the slightly clinging scent of the lube still on his fingers. He stays still though because every time he moves he feels it, sticky and wet at his hole and it makes him want to put his fist through the wall but that's okay. They'll get through this. They've done loads of shit before and it's not like there's anyone else to get them out of this mess. There's no one else the coyote thing seems to want either.

"I'm good." But his voice breaks halfway through his words, coming out coarse and he has to clear his throat. He claps his hands together and the sound is loud in the room, feels alien and just makes the tense silence sharper. "Let's do this."

The color spreads a little further over Sam's face at the words and Sam nods too. Dean thinks he sees the yellow flick back over but he's not sure if that's just a trick of the light. And he forgets about it soon enough because he notices Sam's dick. It looks painful and Dean's sure he would've noticed before. He's noticing now, though. It looks full and kind of—kind of huge. It's pushing up against the front, rounding out and pulling the denim taut across Sam's groin.

Right. Yeah.

The first move Dean makes towards Sam is an abortive one and his hands fist at his sides and he _moves_ , stops only when he's standing away at the length of Sam's outstretched leg.

"Dean," Sam says, and he's not looking at Dean anymore. His free hand, Dean notices now, is locked on the inside of his thigh, fingers digging deep into muscle hard enough that he'll probably leave marks there. Sam takes a deep breath, and the flush is down to his throat now, the red different on his dark skin. "If we're doing this," the words are still coming out even but his chest is starting to hitch up, "you—I have to do it now, man. I can feel it closer to the surface and I won't be able to—" he cuts himself off, lets his head hang for a second and shakes it. The hand trapped by the cuff is fisted now, curling into the pipe so hard Dean can see the white spreading to leech the color from Sam's skin.

Dean's voice softens and he takes another step towards him. This is happening. "Yeah, okay Sammy."

And then it happens kind of fast.

All of a sudden Sam's on his knees , free hand locking on Dean's hip, breathing like crazy, teeth running over Dean's skin. His wrist snaps taut where it's still cuffed to the pipe and that has to hurt but Sam doesn't seem to feel a thing.

Dean flinches but doesn't move back, feels his knees get shaky. He's staring down wide eyed, hands just hovering over Sam's shoulders. And then Sam's tongue, hot and wet swipes over a strip of skin right above the line of his boxers and he shudders. Let's his hands rest on Sam's shoulders. Wide.

Sam's hand sneaks around to press against Dean's lower back and he's rubbing his mouth over him, breathing him in, rubbing his cheek against him and he's tugging at him until Dean's standing over him and his back is pressed to the wall again.

"Sam." God that can't be his voice. Dean wets his lips and tries again. "Sam. We have to—can't be this, man. We have to—"

Sam growls against his skin and yanks Dean's boxers down. There's a rush of blood then, Dean feels like his cheeks are burning and his cock—yeah. That's his dick, half-hard and pressing against Sam's cheek and Dean's left a little dazed by that.

Sam drops his hand to his jeans and Dean can see his arm working, hears the sound of the zipper loud and clear. The heat of Sam's breath passes over the head of his cock and Dean fills out a bit more. A slobbery kiss to the underside and he's hard. He's hard and he's frowning down at Sam.

Sam tilts his head back then. Dean blinks at the shiny wet of his mouth. It takes him a second to look beyond that and see Sam's hand wrapped around himself, squeezing tight around the head, working it so it pushes through his fist, wet and red. And shit. Dean doesn't think he did enough to get himself ready because Sam is—  
He swallows.

"Dean," Sam sounds so strung out and the red under his eyes is deeper, an unhealthier shade than before. Sam shuts his eyes and thuds his head back against the wall. "Let me Dean—promise—promise it'll be good." When he opens his eyes they're slitted, narrowed on Dean and keeping him rooted to the spot. He let's go of his dick and his hand closes, wet and warm on Dean's thigh, encourages him to come down and Dean does.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay Sam, just—easy," and it sounds ridiculous but he's saying it as much to himself as he is to Sam. He settles over him, knees either side of his brother, digging into the floorboards and he almost bolts when he feels Sam's dick nudge against his balls. But Sam buries his head against his shoulder, wraps an arm around him and pulls him close.

So Dean mans up, reaches down and closes his own hand around Sam's dick and has to swallow down the panic when his fingers don't quite close around it. It's heavy in his hand. Sam's moaning into his shoulder now, hips hitching up into Dean's hand, out of his control. Something feels a little off about it but Dean's not paying attention, he's trying to edge forward a bit more because Sam isn't helping and this is fucking awkward.

"You gotta stay still for me, man," he says.

Sam goes still, like a taut violin string. Still vibrating with the after hum of a played note.

Dean lifts up, ignores the tremble in his fingers because he's not a fucking pussy and he can do this. He closes his eyes when the head of Sam's dick butts against his hole, can't help the way the instinctive flex, trying to tighten up and keep it out.

Sam's hand comes up, closes, tension in the stiffness of his fingers, on the back of Dean's neck. His breath is shuddering out of him now.

Dean presses down—

"Yes," Sam gasps, curls himself tighter around Dean and tilts his hips up for more.

And shit. Yeah. That hurts.

Like a motherfucker. Dean grinds his teeth, eyes squeezed shut and keeps going. Sam's dick is opening him up, and it feels like he's being broken open and the only thing even keeping his dick alive is the unpredictable rubs of Sam's stomach against his.

Dean's thighs are trembling with the effort of sliding down slow, taking inch and another inch. And another. And more. And then he stays there, panting hard and he can't take anymore right now.

Sam's whispering. "So deep. Dean." Dean can't really disagree with that. His ass is burning something fierce though and he can't find his way around words just now.

But Sam looks up at him, and his face is sober, lined with sweat. "I can go deeper." And then his hand is on Dean's hip, gentle but firm and urging him lower.

Dean slaps a hand on the wall behind Sam, nods and lets himself be tugged down, slowly to where Sam's hips are rising up to meet him. He's holding his breath and he doesn't realize it and then that's—

"Shit. _Shit_."

Sam's rocks up, moaning, eyes heavy and Dean's taking all of it. Sam.

For a moment they stay that way, just watching each other, only their breathing loud in the room. And then a small smile flickers at the corner of Sam's mouth and his hand is touching Dean's cheek. Dean stares at him, completely stumped.

"You're beautiful Dean."

Dean goes on staring, mouth open and useless. Sam's eyes drop from his face, eyebrows furrowing and he's looking now, at where his dick disappears into Dean.

"Beautiful," he says again, this time it sounds like he's saying it to himself, and he arcs his hips up like he's trying to get in deeper. "You feel," and his face scrunches up, "incredible. Like—everything— _god_."

Dean feels Sam's thighs bunching up under him seconds before he's hefted—his hands scrabble for a hold on Sam's shoulders—and his breath leaves him in grunt as his back's slammed against the wall.

Well shit.

The hand cuff rattles against the pipe as Sam's hand locks around the pipe, his other hand grabs hold of Dean's hip again and he fucks back into Dean.

"You gotta look at me Dean," Sam pants, "you gotta look at me or I'll lose it." And his hand is in Dean's hair, keeping Dean's head pinned to the wall and when Dean opens his eyes Sam's face is right there.

With Dean's eyes open and on him, Sam let's go, slides his hand between Dean and the wall, thumb sliding down the dip of Dean's spine. He rocks into him, slower, stuffing himself deeper and Dean grits his teeth on a groan. But he doesn't close his eyes again. Sam grinds his hips upward and hisses, and Dean feels something else. Soft but firm, swollen, butting against the rim of his hole at every slow thrust into him. Sam leans forward presses his forehead against Dean's chin.

"Dean—you can feel that right?" His hand spreads over Dean's ass cheek, grips hard and Dean bites his lip, knocks his head back into the wall and Sam's eyes flick up to his, glazed but there. He spreads Dean open that bit more and Dean feels the stretch. "You feel that Dean?" he murmurs, and his lips are brushing over Dean's chin as he speaks, lips warm and Sam opens his mouth and sucks there. "I have to—you have to, open. Open up more." And his nails scrape over Dean's skin. Sam makes a muffled sound, lips against Dean's jaw now. His fingers run along the crack of Dean's ass, pass over where Sam's dick is shoving into him, driving the air out of him, in a rough press of fingers and then his hand is curling around Dean's thigh. He pulls up and Dean settles on him harder, taking him deeper.

"Sam," he grits out and there's sweat running down the back of his neck and they stink of spit and sweat and sex.

Sam holds Dean against the wall, keeps him there with all of his weight. He pushes.

"Fuck," Dean hisses, grabs onto Sam's shoulders with both hands and bows forward until his forehead is resting against the back of his own hand. Sam's hips are back to grinding trying to force the swollen base in. The knot. It's a fucking knot. "Jesus Sam," he breathes out and pants. And then Sam's tucking Dean's knee up against his ribs. Dean draws in a breath. Sam shoves.

Dean feels the give, the burn sharp and there as he stretches wide to take it.

Sam's hips snap up and his balls nestle against Dean's ass. It's in. Fuck it's in and Dean can't move. Sam's shuddering against him, not moving either. The heat of him is everywhere and it's like they're locked in a fever.

Dean's feeling a little dazed. His cock is mashed up between their stomachs and he's softened a little, but not by much.

Sam's mouth drifts down over Dean's shirt where it's still clinging and uncomfortable now where it's racked up under Dean's arms. He bites down, biting into the meat of Dean's chest, right above his nipple and it fucking hurts and makes Dean's cock twitch like crazy where it's crushed between their stomachs and Dean grabs at Sam's hair, yanks back hard. Ignores the yelp that comes out of Sam's mouth.

Sam's eyes—the irises are completely yellow now, catching the light and reflecting it like gold but that's still Sam. The recognition is there, there in the way Sam's still holding himself back. The strain is showing, the veins in his neck standing out more than usual and his hips, still shaking against Dean's ass are still.

Dean tightens his grip even more, sees the curl of Sam's lips at the sharp pain and spreads his legs wider, uses his shoulders, and rocks into Sam's cock and Sam makes this wounded sound. "Come on Sammy," he rasps, "come on."

And that's it. Sam snaps.

Dean's head slams back into the wall and Sam's hand is on his throat and his hips are moving so fucking hard, dick forcing in and in, unable to pull out—the sting of the knot tugging at Dean's rim as Sam ruts into him like a fucking rabid dog and Dean thinks he'll feel him in his fucking throat. And it feels good. The knot, it's rubbing against his prostrate with every damn move and Dean's losing it, his belly taut and quivering with it, his thighs straining, Sam's hips wedged tight between them and Sam's got him pressed so tight into the wall he can't even fuck back into him and _Jesus_.

"Tighter," Sam says, is gasping, " _yes_."

Dean shoves a hand down between them, wraps his fingers around himself and starts working his cock, short hard pulls that have him forcing himself harder onto Sam's cock. And Sam's biting at his neck now, right above where his hand is still pinning Dean's head to the wall and Dean can feel it, the tightening low in his belly, spearing right into his groin. His balls are pulling tight and Sam's ruts are getting harder, deeper and slower.

Dean comes when Sam shudders once, twice, and murmurs his name, eyes closed and mouth turned down at the corners. He feels the heat of it, pushed deep by Sam's cock and he groans. Feels his Adam's apple work against Sam's palm as he hitches grinds himself down on Sam's cock and spills between them, come clinging and sticky between the cracks of his fingers.

Sam slumps against him and Dean takes that too, leans his head to the side and makes space for Sam against his neck. He's still coming down from the high, still out of it. He frowns, can't help tightening his muscles up around Sam because he's still twitching inside him. Feels like he's still coming.

Sam murmurs his name and shifts on the floor, like he's getting comfortable.

Dean manages to open his mouth under Sam's when he feels it, soft and warm.

It's easy to give into the post-sex pull of sleep and Dean does.

~

The first thing Dean realizes, is that his legs are cold and there's something thrown over his hips.

The second thing he notices is the low sore throb and how his ass is nestled up to someone else's crotch, someone's legs tucked up behind his and a large hand, warm on his chest, tucked under his shirts. A thumb idly brushing back and forth over his nipple and. And someone's dick is still in him.

"You awake?"

Dean sighs. Opens his eyes.

The makeshift curtain can't even keep the light out anymore and it highlights the room in all its shitty glory. The beds they've been sleeping in are kind of far away and Dean eyes the blankets there and thinks maybe he should've thought this whole thing out more because now they'll have to stay where they are until—

"Yeah. I'm awake." He shifts experimentally and then tenses when he feels it, feels Sam, still swollen and locked in him. Bad idea because he hears Sam's quick indrawn breath, feels the shiver as Sam twitches inside him and presses closer and Dean feels every single movement, winces at the ache and tries not to think about how deep Sam's still buried in him. And everything's all squelchy. He screws his eyes back shut and tries not to think about that either.

"Sorry," Sam murmurs against his nape. The hand he has on Dean's chest stops moving, pulls Dean back into him more. Sam's mouth touches against the curve of Dean's neck, closed and dry. An apology.

Dean swallows. "I'm okay."

Sam nods against him, his hair tickling the side of Dean's face. "Okay."

"S'it still there?"

"Yeah. Fading though. I think when I—when it, when it's gone down. It'll."

"Alright."

They're quiet for a bit. He feels Sam's chest hum against his back before he hears Sam speak again.

"I think it's snowing," Sam says, voice quiet.

Dean nods. He lets his eyes close again. "We'll crawl into the blankets after. Get a fire going or something," he's mumbling now. Feels tired to the bone. Sated too. But he'd rather let that lie for now. "Get some shut eye Sammy."

Against the back of his neck Sam snorts a little, burrows deeper still and this time doesn't apologize when that makes Dean tense again. "No chick flick moments?" And he's nuzzling against him. Dean'll kick his ass for it later.

"Exactly."

"Okay."

"Good."

He's close to dropping off again when he hears it. "Thanks Dean."

Dean lifts his hand, places it over Sam's where it rests under Dean's shirt and t-shirt.

He thinks they fall asleep at the same time.


End file.
